A Day Later
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Modern Warfare 2. During the early days of World War III, tensions rise as warfare erupts all over Europe, North America and around the globe. When NATO grows truly desperate in the face of the Russian advance in Germany, however, the world finds out just how ugly a 21st-century war can get.
1. Chapter 1- In the News

**Chapter I- In the News**

* * *

"**Ignorance is not bliss- it is oblivion. Determined ignorance is the hastiest kind of oblivion."**

**-Philip Wylie**

* * *

As the 21st century progresses, with the Cold War left in the past and the horrors of nuclear war no longer at the world's doorstep, people seem- as they so often do once major tensions or conflicts have passed- to accept that the problems once posed to them will never occur again, and that it's inevitable that things happened the way they did. Looking over the actions of nations, of the choices by presidents, chancellors and generals, the common man can flatter himself that he could have done it too, it seems so easy.

But history is not a long series of inevitable events. It cannot be understood through what people in modern times so often demand- five-minute sound bites, so they can hurry up and post something on Facebook. Civilian populations, especially in the regions of Western Europe and North America that most often flatter themselves with the title "the first world", have short and fickle memories. They do not much bother themselves with the memory of events long since past, and Americans in particular like to call themselves invulnerable and truly believe it.

People may have short memories, but nations do not. The history of England stretches back as far as that of civilization, as does that of Italy, China and Egypt. The way nations get along in the present times- or don't- is based off of alliances, conflicts, friends and enemies going back thousands of years.

The victors of a struggle tend not to remember it as well as the losers do. Irishmen descended from men who fought against Michael Collins' Irish Free State remember that conflict better than their Free State counterparts do, and the people of the Southern United States remember the American Civil War with far greater clarity than do the citizens of the North.

When the member nations of NATO emerged victorious over the Soviet Union in the decades-long struggle between the world superpowers the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, their peoples, rejoicing in the triumph of their political system and way of life, celebrated for a time and then forgot. Advancing from the final days of the 20th century into the second decade of the 21st, the people of the victorious side of the Cold War lived in a prosperous, secure world, forgetting that the causes of the Second World War were, without exception, all brought forward by the end of the first.

Choosing to ignore the chance for true justice, to leave the petty strife of humanity's common history behind them, the victorious Allies of World War One instead squandered their chance to truly make "the War to End All Wars" worthy of its name. Led in particular by Britain and France, the Allies kicked a German dog while it was down, happy and secure in the knowledge that it was weak- and would surely never recover the strength to rise again.

And so it was with the former members of the Warsaw Pact and the Soviet Union. Gangsterism and corruption ran rampant throughout these countries in the 1990's and 2000's, chaos and uncontrolled consumerism replacing the rigid order of the communist one-party-states and their structured, state-governed economy. The East Germans, once a key ally of the USSR and with a military that boasted equipment just as good as the Russians- no downgraded export models for them- suddenly became the losers of Europe.

The last commander of the East German Volksmarine, a three-star admiral who was the youngest in Volksmarine history to hold the post, suddenly became an office clerk for a West German admiral two stars lower in rank. Mass demotions and firings happened all through the East German army, air force and navy, and the Volkspolizei- Vopos, as the West Germans called them- suffered similar decimations as the West German government took over their responsibilities. Retirement pensions- some already being enjoyed, some just a few years or even months away- vanished overnight. No explanation was ever given- they just weren't there anymore.

A Major of the Luftstreitkräfte der NVA, looking forward to a well-earned retirement in 1989, was out of a job in 1990 and with the new Luftwaffe none too interested in hiring him or keeping him on. Before long, this Major- and many like him- found that they could not even get their military service recognized as legitimate, let alone receive their retirement pay or post-service benefits from the new German government. As the Bonn government relocated to Berlin, a shocking change was discovered by those of East Germany who had dedicated their careers to police or military service.

A former Sturmbannführer of the Waffen-SS- an organization declared as a whole to be criminal and not worthy of any recognition, respect or honor- in the post-1990 Germany actually had a better chance of getting a pension from the state than a former Major of the East German air force. Much like the victorious Allies of World War One had done, the triumphant West Germans too did much to squander their chance to ensure true justice was done. They forgot that only through caring for one's neighbor- regardless of his politics or whether he had won or lost your latest dispute with him- could the world truly hope to know peace.

Of course, it would be unfair to say that the West Germans themselves were solely to blame. The French, while committed publicly to membership in NATO, made plans even in the midst of the Cold War to abandon the alliance if a war started between the USA and the USSR and getting involved in the conflict did not suit them.

The United States and its allies quickly forgot about the disgraced and defeated Soviets and the allies they had once had in the world, and the popular conception began to grow in the United States that Russia was a defeated nation and the Russians a broken people. They had lost, and it was inevitable that things had happened this way.

Ronald Reagan, a man not even half as great or exceptional as history has made him out to be, simply got lucky in "winning the Cold War", but he was exalted as a great man and President anyway. The Americans- save for a minority of exceptions- ignored the post-1990 Russia and made no attempt to bring her back into the fold of nations. Russia endured the mockery and laughter of millions, her once-great armed forces mocked and her people if anything worse off than before.

History is often said to repeat itself, but this statement is in truth inaccurate. A detailed, in-depth study of the course of history shows that while history itself is not repetitive, people certainly are. People like to shoot guns, wage war, and kill each other in large numbers over virtually every last excuse that can possibly come to mind. Political disputes of a million varieties, the religion of a people or the colour of a flag.

Mankind came to rule the world not through intelligence, or through its 'humanity', or even through the tools and weapons that, as technology advanced and grew, gave man immense power- mankind instead came to rule the world through a powerful desire to do so, and a willingness to kill anyone and anything that got in the way.

People- especially Americans- love winners, just as General Patton said. They have no interest in compassion or tolerance for losers. What people far too often willingly forget, though, is that losers hate being called such, and some of them will spend years preparing to fight back with everything they have. Sometimes the losers win, and almost always spend their time on the top doing the same thing the last bunch did. Then the new losers come back and everybody swaps titles- forgetting all the while that so long as the world and its many nations must have a constant, arbitrary contest of "winner" and "loser" there runs the chance of the day coming when _everyone_ is the loser.

Hence, when Imran Zakhaev and his Ultranationalist Party began rebuilding and rearming Russia, the Western world reacted with only minimal concern. The evidence building up of Zakhaev trafficking arms- even nuclear ones- in regions of the former USSR, Asia and the Middle East was ignored. So what, some people said- so what if some old bastard who wants to bring back the glory of the Soviet days feels like selling some AK's and a couple nuclear weapons? It's no concern of ours. The Russians are beaten. They're losers.

The events going on in Russia began to become the world's concern, though- even the concern of the United States. The Ultranationalists, impatient and unwilling to let their enemies in the government and military remain in power, made a push that sparked the fire at last, starting the Second Russian Civil War. For a whole year war raged across the cities and farms-turned-battlefields of the Russian Federation, and for the first year afterwards, with the death of Imran Zakhaev and the survival of the Loyalist government, it looked like the good guys had won.

But people have fickle memories as well as short ones, and the public of Russia was divided and confused in the aftermath of their second Civil War. It left wounds and aftereffects as bitter as the first, and this time set consequences in motion that could in the end be far more damaging.

Before long Imran Zakhaev was a hero- statues were being made of him, and a newly-constructed airport was named in his honor, the biggest and most modern airport in Moscow. His own crimes and corruption were forgotten by the Russian people, and only his good deeds- the deeds of a patriot- remained permanent in the Russian memory.

One man in the higher echelons of American military power noticed all this. Lieutenant General Herschel von Shepherd, III became closely aware of the Ultranationalists' growing power, and attempted to warn his superiors of the bring-back-the-USSR movement's steady gains in political and military might. They got the trains running on time again, and even paid for some new ones. The Russian people adored them for this, and the American people could really have cared less. Embittered and shocked by the deaths of 30,000 American soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines in Wadiya when President Al-Assad detonated a nuclear weapon in the Middle Eastern nation's capital, the American people turned their backs on the concerns and issues that had gotten them involved in that country's problems in the first place.

General Shepherd's warnings about the Ultranationalists went ignored- he was sent to be second-in-command of US forces in Afghanistan to keep him busy. And to shut him up. But Shepherd, embittered and angry over the deaths of so many thousands- many of whom had been under his command- was not interested in being ignored. He began working behind the scenes to awaken the American people, to start a chain of events that would make them realise the folly of their current ways and retake their place as the sole world superpower. Shepherd's plans and engineered events ran a very good chance of outliving him, however- and of spiraling steadily outward and growing beyond his control.

Boris Vorshevsky becoming President of the Russian Federation on August 11, 2016 was the culmination of years of painstaking preparation, hard work, and a long series of preceding events. It was the final victory the Ultranationalists needed- with one of their own elected President, there was no doubt now over who had won the Second Russian Civil War. If the Ultranationalists- a legitimate and recognized political party in Russia- had just won the election, they had also won the war. It didn't matter that they'd lost their figurehead and leader, or that they'd been defeated on the battlefield. They controlled the highest office in the land, and thus controlled the country. That was all that mattered.

By the time the United States began to notice Russia again it was already too late to stop them. The Ultranationalists were everywhere, driving the seemingly-victorious Loyalist veterans of the recent war from their posts in the government and military. They bribed some, threatened others- and killed any who tried to resist. The lucky ones fled the country- the rest never even got the chance or failed to recognize the danger in time.

The Ultranationalists took control of the Russian Federation, but they had already done much of what they had on the agenda years before Vorshevsky was elected. The military had been regaining its funding and strength for years since the civil war and was loyal- loyal beyond a doubt. So many soldiers and sailors were benefiting because of the Ultranationalists; they had their jobs back, actually getting paid and feeling proud of themselves for the first time in over a decade. It was every ex-Soviet general's dream come true, seeing the Motherland rise back to her rightful place among the nations. If there was one place the Ultranationalists had few if any real opponents, it was in the armed forces.

Boris Vorshevsky flattered himself head of the nation, but he was really just a figurehead. Softhearted enough to fool those dissidents still remaining among the Russian people, Vorshevsky was also enough of a Ultranationalist that you could be sure he'd do what the Party told him. He was smart enough to understand that plenty of men stood ready to replace him if it looked like he wasn't going to do what he was told.

So when a sweeping series of military, political and economic reforms was announced on August 12, 2016, and the Russian Federation was declared "the new Russia", the Russian Democratic Union, nobody was especially surprised. This had been coming for a while. Five long years, in fact, the amount of time that had elapsed since the Second Russian Civil War had ended.

Unknown to all but a select few in the Kremlin, infamous terrorist and Russian ultranationalist Vladimir Makarov had not scaled back his attacks because the FSB had driven him into hiding; he was spending less time on bombings and airport massacres because he no longer needed them. By August 2016, Makarov was spending a lot more time living a life of luxury in the Kremlin, keeping out of sight but well within the loop of Russian affairs as he took time off from his usual terrorist activities. After all, what need was there when Makarov was now in the inner circle of the Russian Ultranationalist Party? It might be a while yet before he could be exonerated publicly, but Makarov could wait. Russia had a war to win first.

The Russian assault on the United States took that nation completely by surprise. The American people, quite used to thinking of themselves as invulnerable, had fully expected that their military would see such an attack coming and deal with it before it reached American shores. But since the creation of the electronic and radar-based surveillance systems that began to truly dominate American defense strategies in the 1980's, American defense planning has been increasingly based on the might of that nation's technology.

But the higher a structure climbs, the more unstable it becomes. The more it towers over others around it, the less push is required to send the whole thing crashing down. So it was with the American military. With visual contact having long since been replaced by reliance on electronic, radar and sonar detection systems as well as a wide variety of airborne surveillance and satellite networks, much greater emphasis was placed on detecting a threat through those means than through actually seeing it. If the electronic eye of the massive and elaborate American defensive network couldn't see a threat, it couldn't possibly be there.

The irony of it all was that while the American armed forces were indeed the premier military force anywhere in the world, the most powerful armed forces in the history of mankind, they were also the weakest. At the greatest height of American military power, the US Armed Forces were at their most vulnerable. Created, maintained and operated by humans, technology in all its wonders is nonetheless prone to error, just as its creators are. Forgetting this was possibly the greatest error of all made by the American people in the 21st century.

With this reliance on the infallible god of technology- in the 21st century a far more frequently-worshipped god for the American people than God Himself- it was surprisingly easy for a Russian invasion fleet, over 100,000 strong in its ground force alone, to sneak past the electronic eye that was supposed to see them coming and up to the Americans' shores.

The SAS might have been quick to raid that Kazakh airbase that had recovered the downed American military satellite that a Russian one had 'bumped into' a few days ago, but the FSB had been quicker. An operative sent by the Kremlin itself was already well off the base and on his way back to Moscow with the data extracted from the cracked ACS module by the time the two SAS men attacked.

They destroyed the module, the satellite it was taken from and damn near destroyed the base- but it none of it mattered. The immense power of the American electronic defense system had been compromised, and the invasion of the United States began as Russian aircraft, ships and tanks began hitting targets all over the East Coast. For the first time in just over 200 years, the American people found themselves fighting for their own home turf- a first-time experience for anyone who had not fought in the War of 1812.

The invasion of Europe began just one day later. On August 15, 2016, while American forces struggled desperately to retaliate and simultaneously evacuate not even thousands but millions of civilians from East Coast cities and towns suddenly turned into warzones, the Russian armed forces- also committing more than 100,000 in ground troops alone- assaulted Europe. Belarus and the Ukraine did not resist- they had been reabsorbed into the Russian Federation a year ago, and were not about to object to something the Kremlin did now.

Assaulting targets all over Europe with their air force, Eastern Europe with the ground forces and landing in Germany and Holland with their marines, the RDU began taking cities in Europe and the US East Coast, driving forward with a kind of offensive power few thought the Russians had left and making it clear within the first day that this was no mere idea, or experiment. This was all-out war, and the Russians planned not only on taking the countries they invaded, but they intended to stay there for quite a long time to come. All over Europe and the US East Coast soldiers, police and civilians fought back desperately, house-by-house and block-by-block. The media began using the term "World War III", and it certainly seemed to fit. From Warsaw to Washington, from Baltimore to Hamburg, it was now a fight for survival.

On August 16, 2016, while the Battle of Washington, D.C. continued in its second furious day, the German and American 1st Armored Divisions assaulted east towards Dresden and Berlin, breaking through the tentative lines the Russians had established along the old boundaries of the DDR and aiming to free both besieged cities from Russian assault. The fighting was brutal and desperate for both sides, with neither one taking many prisoners. In Berlin, an American journalist traveling with a team of American infantry took a picture of a German and Russian paratrooper, dead in each other's arms- one from a Makarov pistol and the other a bayonet.

The war turned truly global as North Korea assaulted south across the DMZ, taking advantage of the distraction of American forces in Europe and North America, and thus the near-total isolation of US forces stationed in South Korea and Japan. The navies of South Korea, Japan and the United States battled furiously against the surprisingly-large Korean People's Navy while the Russians- not allies of the North Koreans truly but supporting them nonetheless- sent two battle groups to keep American forces in Japan from trying to intervene. Seoul was in an uproar as batteries of North Korean artillery shelled the city, thousands being killed in just one day. The South Korean government vowed to never surrender to the Korean People's Army, and Kim Jong Un responded that was just fine- he planned on shooting those capitalist pigs anyway. The fighting in the Sea of Japan and along the Seoul Line in South Korea was some of the most furious of the war, with hundreds and then thousands dying on both sides.

When it became clear that the Russian forces landed in Holland would soon reach the Rhine River, cutting Germany off from France and effectively splitting NATO in two, President Mark Bennett made an open television address to the Russian government, vowing to carry on the conflict as long as was necessary- and that Russian forces would not be allowed to take Germany, France, or any part of the United States. There was no response from the Russian government beyond a continuance of the invasions begun two days ago.

At 1615 on August 16, fighter jets of the Russian Air Force bombed a German Army munitions storage facility in Berlin. Some of the bombs missed their targets, and a follow-up strike by Russian artillery leveled a school and inflicted severe damage on a hospital.

At 1700, ZNN came on the air with the startling announcement that Moscow was suddenly being evacuated. The effort was apparently begun by civilians in the city, fearful of an American nuclear strike that was sure to be swift in coming. The Russian government did little to contradict this, however, and by 1730 it was confirmed that President Vorshevsky had evacuated his staff from the Kremlin and was on a Presidential airliner- a similarly-unique aircraft designed very much to be a mimic of Air Force One- headed to an unknown location in Russia.

The same news was repeated for the United States, oddly enough. On the East Coast this meant nothing, as the major cities- Baltimore, Washington, Charleston, Jacksonville, New York and others- were already under attack and already being evacuated. As the panicked rumor of imminent nuclear attack as well as the already-present conventional threat appeared and began to spread, more and more news agencies came on the air, each with a confused and conflicting version of what was going on. The United States government attempted to calm the populace but could not halt the massive panic-buyouts of stores in Kansas City and Omaha, or the huge lines of traffic fleeing their homes in San Francisco and San Diego. Finally, much like in Russia, the effort was given up and official evacuations of virtually every major city in the United States began.

A similar situation was occurring in Russia, with neither side's civilians really having any idea where they were running to or indeed what they were running from. Yes, the idea was that they were running from nuclear attack, but no one even knew that for a fact. With the casualties of US and Russian forces climbing into the thousands- the German and American 1st Armored Divisions had really gotten their asses kicked at the Battle of Fulda, as well as a stalemate at Dresden and Berlin- and ship sinkings on both sides in Europe, the Sea of Japan and on the East Coast, the people of both the US and the RDU became increasingly convinced that all hell was about to break loose. They had no idea where they were trying to go- only that they wanted to get away from the major cities, as far away as possible.

At 1800 on August 16, 2016, ZNN came on the air, announcing the first of a series of unconfirmed reports that General Brian Moreland had- after receiving permission from the President- in turn authorized General David Clark, commander of US Air Forces in Europe, to use tactical nuclear weapons in order to halt the Russian advance down the Rhine. Germany and France were in danger of being cut off from each other- NATO itself was in danger of being cut in half. Thousands were being killed on both sides and the Russian Air Force had just destroyed a Royal Air Force radar station in Dover, also bombing airfields elsewhere in Southern England.

At 1900 on August 16, Russian forces took the Rhine River, forcing their way down its shores and completely cutting off France from Germany. General Moreland- who could not be reached for comment as the ZNN reporter traveling with his force had been killed, decapitated by shrapnel from Russian artillery- then ordered the use of three low-yield, tactical nuclear weapons against the advancing Russian troops. The Rhine could not be allowed to fall, Moreland declared to his officers, and nothing was too much if it meant halting the Russian advance now.

At 1915, three US Air Force tactical nuclear weapons were detonated over the shores of the Rhine River. More than an entire division of Russian tanks and infantry- a total of nearly 10,000 men- was obliterated in one instant.

At 1930 the Russian Air Force launched a strike against NATO headquarters in Brussels, Belgium, destroying the structure above ground and recreating in Belgium what had once been done in Japan to the city of Hiroshima. Though tactical nuclear weapons of the modern age are indeed low in blast yield, this term is relative- the strongest tactical weapons of the 21st century are capable of doing extreme damage to even a major city and causing deaths in the hundreds of thousands. In response to the Russian strike against Brussels, Air Force Global Strike Command- the successor to famed Strategic Air Command- issued a scramble call to B-52, B-1 and B-2 bombers, getting every last one that could be mobilized in the air within ten minutes. The Ninetieth Missile Wing was ordered to stand by to launch.

President Mark Bennett ordered the enacting of the United States' "launch on warning" policy, ordering all Air Force and Navy nuclear assets to stand by for launch- he would give the authorization codes the moment it was confirmed that the Russians were preparing to do the same.

The Russian Air Force struck Britain again at 1945, destroying a BMEWS in RAF Flyingdales, England. Simultaneously a group of Tupolev Tu-95 "Bear" strategic bombers, famed for being the only prop-powered four-engined bombers still in service and some of the loudest aircraft anywhere in the world, hit another BMEWS station, this one at Beale Air Force Base in California.

At 1800 US Air Force bombers initiated a massive strike against targets on US soil; Hammerdown Protocol was activated for Washington, D.C. In spite of gallant resistance and a fierce effort at counterattacking by American forces in the city, too many key points in Washington had been lost. Trillions of dollars of damage had been done, and over a hundred high-value, highly sensitive strategic and tactical targets were in danger of being compromised. The White House, the Smithsonian, and all of Andrews Air Force Base were obliterated by a massive carpet-bombing.

Thousands were killed, soldiers and civilians- but the Russian advance was halted. The city stood in utter ruins but many hundreds of thousands yet lived as what was left of Russian and American ground forces struggled over the city. In Berlin the German Army battled fiercely to stop the Russians from taking the capital of their country, and the US Army committed all it had available to assisting them in the effort. Despite this, however, the casualty list continued to climb. By a few hours after nightfall US forces were losing far more than they could afford to in cities like Frankfurt, Hamburg and Berlin, and there position there was even then becoming precarious.


	2. Chapter 2- Into the Red

**Chapter II- Into the Red**

* * *

Captain Michael Andrews stared at the computer screen in front of him, incredulous. His heart was pounding, and his palms began to sweat as he read the codes playing out on the screen, and the coordinates that followed them. It was insane, it was impossible; but it was happening.

The order was coming from POTUS aboard Echo-Six-Mercury- Navy One at the moment- for a missile launch against the Russian Democratic Union. The 321st Missile Squadron, including this particular silo 11 miles East of Grover, Colorado, was to fire everything it had.

"Confidence is high," Captain John Peretz announced next to Andrews, for the benefit of the other officers and airmen in the control room. "I say again, confidence is high!"

"POTUS authorization codes incoming," Andrews announced. "Confirmation; is this an exercise?"

Behind him, the commanding officer in the control room, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Summers, put down a phone he'd just been talking into. "Confirmed; this is not an exercise," he said, raising his voice so everyone in the room could hear.

"300 Russian ICBM's inbound," Peretz announced, "As many impacting points!"

"POTUS authorizes full-scale launch against the RDU; say again, Presidential authorization codes are on-screen," Andrews announced, a bizarre sense of calm taking over as he read and recognized the numbers appearing on the screen in front of him. This was what he'd trained for four long years at Colorado Springs to do- to be an Air Force missile operations officer. You could keep your mind off the horror of what was happening- keep panic from seizing control of you and making you utterly useless- simply being following your training and doing your job. And remembering you were over a hundred feet underground in a hardened missile bunker,

"Confirmed," Summers said, standing behind the two officers and tensely monitoring the computer screens. Then he moved back to standing in the center of the room, and to all the personnel present he said, "Initiate launch sequence. Begin firing sequences for missile engines, confirm missile is ready to launch and ignite fuel mixture."

"Roger, beginning launch sequence." Andrews flipped open a plastic cover over a key-slot on his computer panel, taking out a key kept in his pocket while he was on-duty and surrendered the minute his shift ended, handed to the next man. He stuck the key in the slot- dear God, was this really happening?- and turned it to the right.

"Confirm missile launch!" Andrews said tersely, turning to Peretz beside him.

"Missile launch confirmed," Peretz announced, also speaking in that same detached, professional voice. It was amazing how distanced you could be from the reality of what was happening, as long as you concentrated on doing your job, playing your part in the great war machine. You had a special kind of freedom, then. You relinquished your normal freedoms- freedom as the civilian conceived it- and you were more than happy to see it go. At exactly 20:05 on August 16, 2016, Captain Michael Andrews began to live in a new world, enjoying a completely new and different kind of freedom. As the Minuteman-III standing in its silo at this particular site in Colorado fired its engines for the first time since its construction in 1990, Andrews thought of where this missile was going- St. Petersburg- and the millions who would inevitably die when it got there. He thought of the millions more who were going to die, also, when the equally inevitable Russian missile strike- which side had launched first didn't matter anymore- hit the first of many American cities.

But Andrews relinquished his old life that day, and he was more than happy to see it go. He would miss his wife, his newborn daughter and all his friends not in this missile silo… he would miss them all terribly. But as the silo shook- every inch of it trembled- as the Minuteman-III fired its engines and roared into the sky, living up to its name by being in the air in just over one minute, Andrews thought of what he would say when whoever survived in the American public came for him. He had a new kind of freedom today, and he would explain that to the judges or the angry, three-headed farmers or the goddamned fucking _Canadians_ if they were the ones who broke open the silo's doors first a week or a year from now. The freedom to say "I just did what _they_ told me to! _They're_ the ones you want, not me." The freedom- God help them all- to say, "I was only following orders."

**XX**

Airman First Class Kevin Morgan watched, mouth agape, as the ground shook and a missile roared out of its silo. Nearby, looking around the open Colorado fields where these ten missiles waited patiently for years and were now going airborne at last, Morgan could see every other one of the nine missiles in this Missile Alert Facility taking off. White smoke billowed out beneath them as the bright orange flames from their tails sent them climbing into the sky. Morgan almost thought he could read USAF on them.

"Well, shit," somebody said, and lit up a cigarette as the Air Force Security Forces- Air Force MP's- stood around near the front gate. "That's that."

Morgan spun around and saw himself looking at Airman Jason McCallister. "You gotta be kidding me, motherfucker!" Morgan yelled, amazed in spite of himself at how scared and angry he was. He pointed at the white clouds of smoke beneath the white missiles, climbing into the black night sky. "You think that's some kind of a fuckin' test? You think this is just something we can stand here and expect to walk away from?"

"I think there's nothin' we can do about it," McCallister said with forced calm. "It's over. The fuckin' things are in the air. Nothing's gonna change that."

There was not much Morgan could say to contradict that; after all, it was true. But that didn't mean he had to admit McCallister was at least partly right. "You realize what's happening?" Morgan half-screamed, turning to the half-dozen other men standing at the front gate to the silo's perimeter with him. "You realize the fucking Russians have a hundred nukes exactly like the ten we just fired? You think they might be able to spare even one of those to pay us a little visit?"

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

That was Staff Sergeant Barnes, the even-tempered, cool-headed NCO in charge of the front gate right now. He'd gone to Afghanistan in 2014 and was a respected SF soldier.

Turning to Barnes but addressing all the other men present, Morgan spoke rapidly, his hazel-brown eyes alive and his voice gripped with fearful excitement. "I say we go!" Morgan cried, already gripped with a maddening panic about his family. God help him, they lived in Grover…! That was half the reason he'd been so happy when they'd giving him his posting. Eleven miles to work in the morning, eleven miles back- his folks and his girl all in the same town, a chance to give Mom a hug and fuck Julie all on the same night- it had been a job made in Heaven. Now it felt like an arrangement made in a much warmer place, whose name Morgan heard rhymed with 'bell'.

"We should just get the fuck outta here!" Morgan cried, his voice cracking a little- God help him, he was only nineteen- and his eyes wide with fear. "Look," he said, calming down a little, "We've done our jobs! We've guarded the damn gate and the missile boys have done their job- McCallister said it himself, what matters now? This silo is as important as an empty cigar box. There's nothing here to guard?"

"Hey," Airman Henry Baker said hesitantly, "M-maybe Morgan's right. I mean, maybe we _should_-"

"We're _staying_ on station," Barnes said flatly, gripping his M-4 and glaring around, his stare challenging any of the other airmen present to make a move or speak a word against him. Looking straight at Morgan, Barnes said, "Morgan, you're a fuckin' Airman. You got your orders the same as I do. You volunteered for this the same as the rest of us. The Air Force expects us to-"

"The Air Force don't expect us to do _shit_, Sarge!" Morgan yelled, so out of control he didn't care that he was backtalking an NCO- and one he respected greatly- for the first time in his life. "The Air Force expects us to _die_!"

Pointing at the missile silo a hundred or two hundred yards off- and then at the emergency hatch entrance in the grass, much closer- Morgan continued, "Do you think those fellas are worried? We're standing up here with our dicks in our hands, Sarge! All dressed up and nowhere to go! But while we're up _here_, what do you think they're doin' down _there_? Kickin' back, sipping on a cold beer and playing some fuckin' Austin Mahone!"

"That's about enough," Barnes said flatly. "You're a fucking Airman, understand? You signed up just the same as the rest of us, Morgan. Don't you fuckin' talk to me about desertion now. Even if I let you go, this is wartime. If the Air Force _catches_ you, they will _shoot_ you. You _understand_ that, Morgan? Is that what you _want_?"

Morgan stared in fascinated horror. This was too unreal, just too fucking crazy to possibly be true. This had to be a goddamn dream.

"What?" Morgan said, as if he hadn't heard. "What are you _talkin_' about? We're standing up here with death from above about to come down on our heads and you're talking about _desertion_? Who the hell _cares_, Sarge?"

"I do."

Briefly, Morgan's temper rose higher and he almost exploded- almost got into a shouting match- maybe then a shooting match- with his squad leader and most respected NCO. Then he saw the fear in Barnes' eyes, in the eyes of Senior Airman Dodge and all the others around them. The eyes of the other airmen were flicking back and forth between Barnes and Morgan in fascination, between the rebellious teenager- though skilled and professional Airman- and the not-much-older NCO.

When Morgan paused just a moment to take in a breath and looked Barnes in the eyes, the peak of his anger went out of him. His voice might have hidden it, his face might have hidden it- that mask of professional calm was something Barnes was remarkably good at. But his green eyes… Staff Sergeant Barnes was scared shitless. You couldn't see it- not unless you locked eyes with him and looked for a moment or two- but Barnes was so scared he was probably one step from insanity. This mask, this act- guarding the base- was how Barnes was remaining sane. He was… protecting the silo. Waiting for orders. Like a good soldier.

But Airman First Class Kevin Morgan was done with that. He was through being "a good soldier". He'd been in the Security Forces for a year since he'd graduated high school, and for a while he'd really been happy with it. Going to community college on the side, getting some promotion points added up- he had been feeling pretty good about life. And then this goddamn war had come along and fucked everything up. Wars did that- it was what they were all about. But that didn't mean Morgan had to like it! Nor did it mean he had to agree with Staff Sergeant Jason Barnes, however much he sympathized with him.

Suddenly Morgan put his M-4 rifle in one hand and thrust it into a surprised Barnes' arms. "Don't tell 'em I gave it to you," Morgan said with remarkable calm. "Tell 'em I said I was gonna desert, and you took it by force."

Then he pointed at the red emergency hatch- unlocked in case an SF needed to make a hasty entrance or exit from the silo in an attack on the complex- and looked around at Barnes and the others.

"There's a way underground through there," Morgan said, speaking hurriedly. "You got a key, they'll let you in. There's enough food down there for six months, we all know that. You don't wanna leave, fine! But fucking go down there and _live_ instead of standing up _here_ waiting to die!"

The idea was sound; even Barnes looked like he agreed. Though he looked questioningly at Morgan, Staff Sergeant Barnes turned to the other airmen and issued a few terse orders. They would move underground into the silo.

The men calmed somewhat at the idea; they had orders now and knew how to act, what to do. And they were going to go underground, where the beer and Austin Mahone music was. They were gonna live.

Only when the men had reached the hatch and begun to climb in did Barnes notice Morgan was still standing above them, staring down tensely under his ABU patrol cap and short-cut auburn-brown hair.

"Come on," Barnes said finally, after a second-long staring contest. "This was your idea."

"So it turns out I had a good one _after_ all!" Morgan snapped, and reached into his pocket, whipping out the keys to his 1985 Chevy Blazer. It was Army surplus, ironically, a stripped down, olive-drab diesel that was often mistaken for being official Air Force hardware. And it was the only chance Morgan had of seeing Mom, Dad, his twelve-year-old brother Neal or Julie before the missiles hit. That truck was everything he had in the world.

Seeing the keys, Barnes set down Morgan's M-4 and raised his own. "You're _really_ gonna go for it, aren't you?"

"And you're as fuckin' crazy as a priest in a whorehouse!" Morgan yelled flippantly. "I'm deserting the Air Force, Barnes, but in twenty minutes I don't think there'll be much of an Air Force _left_! The button's been pressed and we stood by like a bunch of _fuckin'_ idiots and let 'em _push_ it!" Then Morgan gripped the Blazer's keys in his right hand and shouted into Barnes' face, "So what does the book say _now_, _ass_hole?"

He turned away and sprinted for his truck, never once bothering to turn back. As Morgan threw open the driver's side door, turned the engine over and threw the manual gearshift into drive, he saw the red hatch had closed. Turning the truck and stomping the gas pedal, Morgan's Blazer roared for the front gate. Smashing the heavy chain-link gate out of the way, Kevin Morgan only distantly realised that he really _had_ just deserted the United States Air Force. Abandoned his post in wartime while serving on active duty. That was desertion if anything ever was. In an equally detached, distant way, he realised he had just been spared for it. Staff Sergeant Jason Barnes had spared his life.

It was true, though, what Barnes had said. The offense Morgan had just committed was punishable by death, and whatever elements of the US government and military survived the coming impacts would certainly be bringing back capital punishment in a hurry. "If the Air Force _catches_ you, they will_ shoot_ you!" Barnes' words echoed in Kevin Morgan's mind. He knew his now-former squad leader was right. He knew Barnes had said that because he was worried that even if Morgan _made_ it to Grover, Colorado and survived the impacts with his family, he would be tracked down, arrested and shot. Stood up and shot against the wall of a barracks, or- far more likely since a barracks might no longer exist and Kevin Morgan might not be the only coward, deserter or traitor to shoot- simply shot in the front yard of his own home. Right in front of his folks.

But that didn't matter. Only one thing mattered now- getting back to Grover, Colorado. Making that eleven-mile drive five minutes ago and seeing his family, his girl again- and maybe getting them underground somewhere, or far out away from any of the missiles' targets. There had to be something he could do. There _had_ to be.

As he tore down the dirt road to his assigned silo, fishtailed wildly onto the first paved road he reached and took off, far above the speed limit as he headed for his home city, Morgan realised he really had no idea if the Russians' missiles would take half an hour to reach their targets or not. He had no way of knowing if he even had enough time to get back to town, let alone find anyone he knew.

But as he took the Blazer as fast as he dared and then faster still, the engine roaring louder than the wind blasting around his ears, Kevin Morgan was sure of one thing. Just the one, and that was all he needed. He didn't know if he'd make it to Grover, didn't know if he'd see his girl or his family before the end. But his thoughts focused in on one word, one phrase. One prayer.

_I will try_.

**XX**

"They've stopped the shelling for now," Captain Michael L. Merridew said quietly, turning to the two boys behind him. "Come on."

Neither of the children- one thirteen years old and the other no more than eight- said anything, their eyes wide and their mouths held tightly closed with intense, all-consuming fear. But when Captain Merridew emerged from behind the garden hedge they'd been hiding behind during the brief artillery barrage in the area, the boys followed, keeping their movements low and quick. They had been caught out in the open a few minutes ago, making an effort to escape the suburban Northern Virginia neighborhood and make it to an evacuation site- or anywhere, really, that could be called friendly lines.

Michael Merridew was an officer in the United States Air Force, an F-22 Raptor pilot with the 27th Fighter Squadron out of Langley Field in Virginia. His unit- the whole base, actually- had been taken completely by surprise when the Russians began their attack. The heavy booms of exploding aircraft and fuel tanks on the base was what had woken Merridew up; then, rushing outside with the other off-duty pilots and looking up to see what the hell was going on, they saw dozens- no, hundreds- of foreign aircraft, fighters and transports mostly, roaring overhead, supported by a swarm of vicious-looking attack helicopters.

The only logical answer as to who it could be came to Michael's mind, and he had said "That must be the Russians," as calmly as he could manage.

That pause hadn't lasted long, though; the brief halting at the barracks door ended when a Russian bomber- a "Backfire", that's what its NATO reporting name was- streaked low over the flight line. Moments later a whole line of parked KC-135 Stratotankers exploded, a chain of fireballs that threatened to incinerate anything and anyone nearby.

Sprinting outside to the tune of screaming air raid sirens and the heavy crump of falling bombs, Michael and the other pilots in his squadron had raced to their parked aircraft. Michael was one of the lucky ones- his aircraft had been among those on standby, fueled, armed and ready for tomorrow's planned live-fire exercises. Others had taken off with only their 30mm cannons, and too many- thanks in no small part to MiGs and Mi-28 Havocs strafing the runway- hadn't taken off at all.

Michael remembered vividly how his squadron had fled Langley in a big hurry, not even trying to contest the air superiority the Russians held there. Instead, finding the radio traffic of American forces a complete mess for miles in every direction, the fighter pilots of the 27th had chosen to fly west to Washington, D.C. in the hopes of doing some good there. They had climbed high- thousands of feet- to avoid heavy Russian AA fire, but had been forced to dive, much like birds of prey on the big, fat transport birds dropping Russian paratroops by the hundreds down below, in order to engage them. Michael still remembered with grim satisfaction how his squadron had swept in, over a dozen F-22's taking at least that many Russian transport planes down in their initial attack.

The fighter escort had not been long in coming, however, and a fierce air duel erupted as a group of MiG-29's came streaking in to defend their charges. Michael's luck had run out there; he'd been hit and forced to eject, but not before four of the five Fulcrums that engaged him also went down in flames. With those kills- and at five to one odds no less- and the single Russian transport he'd shot down, Michael could content himself with five kills. Ace status.

Then he'd wound up drifting down over this neighborhood, somewhere in- from what he could tell in his brief descent from the air- either D.C. or Northern Virginia. Either way, naturally his chute had managed to snag on the one tree in somebody's backyard, and he'd wound up hanging there, a gun to his head, as he held his hands up and said frantically "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I am _not_ a Russian soldier!"

From there things had gotten only somewhat better. The gun to his head was withdrawn after a few moments of silence, and Michael had turned his head to see a kid- no more than thirteen years old- perched in the tree behind him, clutching a .45 calibre pistol and looking quite grim for his age. Michael had shivered a little at the sight; this kid looked like he was plenty ready to kill a Russian pilot if the need- or maybe even the chance- were to come. The American pilot wondered if this boy hadn't killed someone already, and fervently hoped the answer was no. This was a warzone, no place for little boys. This kid looked like he was a pretty nice one most of the time- a fairly nice guy himself, Michael liked to think he could sense that in others even at a time like this- but this war was gonna screw him up in the head if he saw too much of it. Michael could take it, or at least had a better chance- he was a fighter pilot, one of the elite chosen to fly the Raptor. He was trained to deal with things like this. This kid wasn't.

Kid or not, though, the boy had proven quite helpful. Upon realizing Michael didn't want to unclasp his chute immediately for fear of breaking his leg(s) in the ten foot fall from the tree, the boy had quickly scrambled down from the tree and found a small trampoline in the backyard. Knowing he couldn't hang here like this for long- there was a chance the Russians nearby had mistaken him for one of their own, either a downed pilot or another paratrooper, but there was an equally good chance they knew he was an American pilot- Michael had taken the chance and unhooked himself from his chute. The trampoline had never been meant to take well over 200 pounds of sudden, direct impact, but it held just a little before giving way, and Michael made it down intact.

That had been hours ago. Now it was dark, and only flames and sparks in the smoke rising from many fires rising into the sky lit the city anymore. Nearly all the street lights were gone, and most people had turned off their homes and businesses' lights to avoid attracting the Russians, who many times had shown up anyway. Michael, against his better judgment, had taken these boys with him in an attempt to find safer ground. The one- Kevin, the older boy- had found the other, Matthew, in the basement of the house Michael had landed in the backyard of. It was his home. His parents, it seemed, had hidden him there in the basement and not come back. Michael didn't like to think too much about what that could mean, but he found no bodies in a quick search of the upstairs region of the house, so that had to count for something.

The boys had been overjoyed at the arrival of the American pilot, and Matthew had briefly forgotten where he was and begun asking Michael all sorts of questions, like what kind of aircraft he flew- F-22 Raptor, which caused a gasp of awe from both boys- and how many Russians he'd shot down before losing his plane- five, which awed the boys again, realizing they were meeting a real American ace. Michael had been forced to quiet them down, though, telling them seriously that this was a war, and they could be hurt or even killed if they weren't careful. This wasn't anything like it was on TV. Kevin had sobered up quickly, and Matthew had gone back to looking quietly terrified, a change Michael regretted causing, but knew he could hardly avoid. He had to tell these kids the truth, at least some of it. That was the only way he was gonna keep these two alive.

So now they were sneaking back through the darkened streets of the Northern Virginia neighborhood- the street sign at the edge of the neighborhood had been the site of a direct hit by a 155mm artillery round, so Michael had no idea of the street's name- and past the wreckage of a still-burning T-80 tank, ripped open like a sardine can by an A-10 "Hog" and its 30mm "weed-eater" Gatling cannon. The sight cheered all three of them a little; it was good to have a sight like that, reminding them that the good guys were still carrying on the fight. Michael hoped he could get these boys to an evacuation site and get back in the fight soon- being cut out of things like this didn't suit him. He needed to get back in the fighting.

Michael crept slowly across one lawn and over to another, keeping low and stopping now and then to look around. He gripped his M9 pistol tightly; part of the gear strapped tightly to his flight suit, the M9 had maybe four magazines total and was the only weapon he had. Behind him Kevin still clutched that .45- Michael hadn't even bothered trying to take it. He needed a second gun in the group and in any case, what was the point? They were in a war. You needed everyone you could get.

As they neared the house they were looking for, the three ducked as a group of helicopters, friendly or enemy Michael couldn't tell, flew low overhead. Both sides were still battling for control of the city, and Michael really didn't know who was winning. He hoped it was the good guys.

Abruptly his radio spat static, and Michael snatched it off his vest, meaning to turn its volume knob all the way down and silence it. He almost did, but what he heard made him stop. His blood ran cold.

It was an Air Force message, the speaker still using some military jargon but broadcasting on an open channel. This was something they wanted civilians to hear. Then Michael realised why; they were announcing inbound Russian missiles.

Missiles! It had finally happened! Someone had finally turned the key!

_Oh, Christ_.

Michael saw the beginnings of a flash as he looked North- somewhere towards Philadelphia, a bright sun began to light up the dark. The pilot ducked and looked away just in time. Then he realised there was another potential target- Richmond, to the south, another city the Russians likely had no hold in yet and had nothing stopping them from targeting it in a missile attack.

Turning his head, Michael realised the older of the two boys- both of them, actually- was standing up, staring south as the boom of the distant explosion hit them, as if he wanted to see if another would follow as well.

"Get down! Look away!" Michael roared, tackling both of them just as another sun lit up the sky to the south. Matthew wisely shut his eyes, shaking with fear so real Michael could feel it as they crashed to the ground. Kevin, however, had to look. He kept his eyes on the sky and looked for just a second too long, drawn by some morbid fascination for which he could find no words. Then another sun exploded into life to the south, and Kevin screamed as abrupt pain seared into him. He saw the sun blast away the night, and it was so powerful, so _beautiful_- then blackness took Kevin's vision and that terrible sight was no more. He lay still on the grass, tilting his head slightly as he heard a powerful, growling roar of wind coming in the distance. It sounded like the two biggest freight trains in the world were on their way.

The shockwaves hit moments later, and a sudden wind kicked up, roaring up and down the street and threatening to pull them all away. Forcing himself to his feet, knowing just what was happening, Michael tucked his M9 in his flight suit and bodily lifted both boys in his arms. "I got you, guys," the pilot shouted over the wind, "I got you! You're gonna be all right!"

Not even bothering to open the door now but instead just kicking it in, Michael hurried inside, racing down the stairs as the first of many aircraft and helicopters began crashing from the sky. He made it into the basement as a MiG-29 plummeted into the street outside.

**XX**

Over the Blue Ridge Mountains, fleeing the besieged city of Richmond, a C-130 Hercules of the West Virginia Air National Guard was hit by the shockwave, its electronics and controls shutting down as a result of the EMP. The aircraft, filled beyond capacity with refugees bound for Charleston, West Virginia, where refugee-carrying planes had been landing for the past day, went into a dive as its tail was kicked higher by the shockwave. It went into a dive from which, without power to the controls, there was no hope for it to recover. It impacted a mountainside at 2100, coming down to earth at well over 300 miles an hour. There were no survivors.

Over Kansas City, a massive nuclear blast exploded into life over a thousand feet into the sky. The fireball expanded, soon becoming the iconic and dreaded mushroom cloud, and it burned and seared everything in its path. Consumed in the powerful, high-yield blast, Kansas City abruptly ceased to exist. There was no chance to escape, no way to avoid it. Miles-long lines of cars still packed with people trying to flee the coming explosion were incinerated along with those still inside the city, which was completely destroyed. It just wasn't there anymore.

Had you watched the exchange from a satellite or a space station in orbit- as those in the ISS actually did- you would have seen dozens of second suns exploding into life, flashing brighter than the sun for just a moment before burning and then fading out. The explosions, even at that distance, would have carried such fierce brightness that the sun-spots they gave you would have lasted for days. The crew of the International Space Station counted the explosions and then stopped just as suddenly. They didn't want to know just how many impacts were occurring over America, over Russia. They didn't want to know how many would be killed in the blasts, only that the world would be very different when they were over. The impacts finally stopped- it took perhaps two or three minutes- and the territory of the United States and Russia was much darker.

Not many lights were on, and in any case there weren't many who needed them in many places. Philadelphia, Richmond, Orlando, Kansas City- Moscow, St. Petersburg, Odessa, Vladivostok. No one might ever be able to add up the numbers, especially since there literally would not be bodies to find in many cases. But it didn't matter. The crew of the ISS watched it all from orbit, and watching in horror as the American and Russian people- or rather, their elected officials- finally turned the key on each other. It didn't matter just what the final count would be, once the exchange was finally over. Millions died. That was bad enough.

**XX**

The explosions and crashing aircraft finally stopped after a few minutes, as did the powerful winds from the twin shockwaves. Michael felt like he'd been struck dumb, made mute by the horror of what he'd just seen. There was no way this had finally happened. How could the nightmare of nuclear war, something that had been a worry of Michael's parents and grandparents, revisit them now? How was it that after two-thousand-and-sixteen years- more, actually- of recorded history, mankind had still not managed to stop killing each other?

They'd probably be stopping now. Michael realised that after a moment, hugging the two boys close and shielding them with his body down in the basement. It was a foolish, useless gesture- had the blasts gotten down here, or had a jet or helicopter crashed down on their heads, Michael, strong and fit as he was, would have been as inconsequential as if he'd been a child himself. But the horrible roar of noise finally ended, and the world above once again fell silent. Michael found himself thankful this basement was so solidly below ground, with reinforced concrete for its ceiling. They were gonna need that.

Finally, he got up, taking out one of the emergency candles he'd found earlier and tucked away in a leg pocket of his flight suit along with some matches. He lit the candle, looking down in its flickering light at the two boys.

"Wh-what's happening?" Matthew whispered, tears of absolute terror running down his face. "What did we do?"

"We'll be all right," Michael said softly, patting the boy on his shoulder and wishing he didn't feel like he was lying.

Then he turned to Kevin, that brave, wonderful boy who had so fiercely protected the other child all this time. His black hair seemed darker still in the basement's dim light, and he stared blankly up at Michael in a way the young officer really didn't like.

Finally he cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak.

"I'm going to go up top," he said, and abruptly Matthew clung to him in a panic. "No! You can't go up there, they'll _get_ you! Don't leave, _please_!"

Michael gently pried the boy off him, a task that proved surprisingly difficult. Matthew _really_ did not want to let go. "I'll be okay," he said, again feeling like a liar. "Whatever happened, it's over. I won't be gone long, I'm just gonna go up there and look around."

Matthew finally sat up and began to sob quietly, but he didn't object. "You're gonna get hurt," he said with a small boy's total conviction.

"I'll be fine," Michael said. "Promise."

He turned to leave when Kevin's voice called him back. "You'll need this."

The Air Force fighter pilot turned back to see the thirteen-year-old boy staring in that wide-eyed, bizarre way with an eerie expression of calm on his face. He was holding out the black, .45-calibre pistol in one hand, butt first.

Michael shook his head. "You're gonna need that, Kevin. I need you to stay strong for me. Guard Matt while I go up."

But the boy just smiled vaguely and shrugged, continuing to hold out the pistol. "Oh, that's all right, sir. I can't see anymore."

What froze Michael Merridew the most, what gave him a feeling of fear and horror too deep for words to describe, was the calm way Kevin Dunn said it. Matter-of-fact, like he was just out in the park on a sunny day and was letting his big brother know he was gonna go feed the ducks by the lake.

"I'll take it," Matthew said, and over the sudden objections of Kevin suddenly wrestled the weapon from the older boy's grip. His chest still hitched and his eyes still ran with tears- a very different kind ran from Kevin Dunn's seared eyes- but Matthew looked at the Air Force captain with surprising courage and strength.

This thirteen-year-old boy, his newest and best friend in the world, had been strong for Matt in the past two days. He had protected Matt, kept him safe- even climbed up in that tree to make sure that downed pilot wasn't a Russian, and perhaps even kill him if he was. Matt didn't know what had happened to Kevin, why he had looked at that huge bomb that went off and now could not see. But he was going to protect Kevin now. No matter what.

"You come back, sir," Matthew ordered, sounding surprisingly fierce for so small a boy. "We need you."

"I'll be back, I promise," Michael Merridew said, and turned to go upstairs, leaving the candle at the base of the stairs so the boys- well, Matt- had something to see by. As he ascended the stairs with his M9 in hand, Michael realised one or both of the boys was probably going to ask him when he came back- and he would come back- of Kevin would ever be able to see again.

Briefly, Michael Merridew, Captain, USAF, wondered if he'd end up having to lie about that in order to give the boys hope. Then he grimly realised that if he started down that road, it wasn't gonna be the last lie he ended up having to tell.

Like when they asked him what the world was gonna be like tomorrow.

* * *

**I got the idea for this story while watching the 1983 movie "The Day After", hence the title. I won't say what happens in that movie, but it's a close basis for what happens in this story. There were a lot of interesting things about the "Modern Warfare 2" and "Modern Warfare 3" depiction of a full-scale war finally erupting between the United States and Russia, but I found some of it to be short on details, and other parts to be contrived and unrealistic. MW3's repeated assertion that President Boris Vorshevsky is somehow a "good man" who only wants to do what's right in spite of voluntarily becoming the Ultranationalist Party's candidate for President of Russia makes no sense.**

**Thus here I mention him as a somewhat hesitant man, not truly dedicated to the Ultranationalists' policies- but one who is still a volunteer for his position and who is not so stupid as to think he can defy Ultranationalist policy without being immediately replaced. I do not mention him making any peace overtures to the United States, because that would not EVER have happened the way MW3 portrays it. Think about it. What would have happened had Vorshevsky even **_**made**_** it to that meeting the game mentions? What did he plan to do? Say "Oh, yeah, sorry about that" when the NATO delegation brought up "the skulls of a million children" as Exhibit A for opening negotiations?**

**The chance that nuclear war could have erupted between the USA and the RDU as I call Ultranationalist Russia was actually, I think, very high. US forces worldwide would have been on their highest DEFCON level possible, and nuclear arsenals everywhere in America and Russia would have been put on five-minutes-or-less standby 24 hours a day. All it would have taken is for NATO or the Russians to grow desperate enough, starting the exchange with tactical weapons. From there the situation would have escalated just as "The Day After" depicts. Once tactical nuclear weapons entered the picture the war would have been extremely hard to control, and individuals like Shepherd and Makarov would not have mattered much anymore.**

**Keep in mind that I have altered or removed several canon details from the events of World War III in this story. Europe gets invaded two days after the US East Coast does, instead of sitting on their arses for two months as the CoD storyline says they did. Right. I also changed details of President Vorshevsky as I said, and altered events in Moscow so Vladimir Makarov remained a member of the Ultranationalist inner circle and thus was there to make sure that the Russian government kept up the war once it started- and perhaps ensure that Vorshevsky turned the key, as well. I also changed aspects of the fighting in Europe, basing the Russian Army's advance to the Rhine River off of the way that happened in "The Day After". I also altered the course of the Battle of Washington, D.C.- the city's defenders fail to retake the key points in the city before the airstrike impacts, and thus Hammerdown is not aborted as it is in MW2's canon events.**

**This story also draws on a few details from another MW2 fanfic, "When the War Came" by Eagle2. Namely, the name of Mark Bennett as the President of the United States and the characters of Kevin Dunn and Matthew Pierce. I borrowed the characters, but the events that happen to them are original to my story. There is no nuclear war in "When the War Came". **

**The flash-blinding of Kevin Dunn is based off the flash-blinding of Danny Dahlberg in "The Day After". Both boys stare directly at a nuclear explosion at the moment it happens, and the resulting flash of light burns their eyes, blinding them permanently. Flash-blindness as a phenomenon can happen and be temporary, but in the case of nuclear weapons it is always permanent. Danny- and Kevin- would be blind for life in their respective works of fiction. Any 21****st**** century solutions to this, any possible means of using technology to restore their vision, would have been unavailable in a post-nuclear-war America. The hospitals would have been overwhelmed with the injured and sick, and as an otherwise healthy child- mostly- Kevin Dunn would not have been high on the casualty list.**

**For clarification, "the book" Morgan refers to is most likely the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the text of laws that outlines right and wrong for servicemen in a vast range of situations. Morgan is deserting his post so he can- hopefully- go be with his family, and the NCO in charge of his unit goes against this, as "the book" forbids desertion. The UCMJ and any other military manual of conduct don't really offer a text on what servicemen are supposed to do once missiles are in the air and a mass nuclear exchange is imminent. They kind of leave that part out, most likely because what the Air Force said was right or wrong would not count for much at that point. Morgan knows all that- hence his question.**

**Had a war like this occurred it would have meant the death of civilization as we know it. Entire cities would have been destroyed, and with the loss of America and Russia as political and economic powers the world economy would have been severely damaged to say the least. Millions would have died. Rebuilding from the damage that a mass nuclear exchange between Russia and America would have done would've taken 50 years at least, probably more like 100- if true recovery ever happened at all.**

* * *

"**I do not know what weapons World War III will be fought with, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."**

**-Albert Einstein**


End file.
